On Love and Living
by Gayani
Summary: Inspired by Kubler-Ross book On Death and Dying and its 5 stages of grief. Or in this case, five stages of love. How Sherlock comes to understand his feelings for Watson. Set over the course of the three seasons so far aired. Very Joanlock. Can't even deny it. Also posted on AO3


A/N: I'm back with more! This is actually something I have attempted with several of my OTPs and only really successfully written for one other. I was surprised how easily this one wrote for Joanlock. I love your feedback and I hope you enjoy!

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**Denial**

_Absurd_.

Sherlock stares at the words on the screen. The glow from his computer is the only source of light in the library, where he sits up late, hard at work on a case. Upstairs, Watson sleeps, rejuvenating her mind and body for the next day. It's just as well, he certainly wasn't getting anywhere.

"Of all the childish…" Sherlock mutters as he furiously types back a response.

Lightning quick the answer returns, taunting…_K-I-S-S-I-N-G_

"Ugh!" Sherlock slams the laptop shut resoundingly, plunging him into the intruding darkness of night. "In love…of all the ludicrous…absolutely preposterous!" Sherlock grumbles to the empty room. He scowls into the blackness, "Everyone…pfft….they most certainly do not know everything!"

"Sherlock?"

He startles, his knee bumping the table painfully, the large volume which had been precariously teetering on the table's edging slamming to the ground, his own shriek joining the ruckus.

The light flicks on and suddenly the room is ungodly bright. He squeezes his eyes shut as his knee throbs painfully, willing that it is not in fact the only logical person standing behind him to his left. An intruder would be much preferred.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and turns slowly, finding Watson standing at the room's edge, a sleepy smirk gracing her features. She raises an eyebrow at him and tilts her head. "Talking to yourself again?"

"Why are you awake?" He skirts the question. "I thought you were going to catch some sleep and that I 'should not disturb you unless absolutely vital, upon pain of death'?" He raises his eyebrows back at her.

"I did not say 'upon pain of death', that sounds much more like something you would say." Her smirk turns to a soft smile and he suddenly notices his blood rushing in his ears.

"Anyways" Watson continues, "I had a dream and when I woke up it gave me an idea…on second thought I am starting to sound like you, aren't I?" She asks slightly worried. She shifts from one foot to another, wrapping her red cardigan over her pajamas. He glances at the length of her exposed leg shown from her ridiculously short pajama bottoms, then looks pointedly away.

"Well, an idea is much needed. Everyone has been…decidedly unhelpful."

"Oh?" He is suddenly aware that she is standing right behind him, her hand on the back of his chair.

"They would only help if…"

"If?"

"It was….outrageous."

"It usually is…and yet you usually agree to it." He turns to look back at her, the unasked question hanging between them.

"They…" He thinks he should tell her about their insistence. Their demand that if only he would admit his…well what was there to admit? Absolutely nothing. And since that was the case it was completely unnecessary to share the details with Watson. Would only cause unnecessary and unwarranted discomfort. Best then to leave it be. "Well…it's not even worth repeating and certainly not a demand worth caving to. So tell me your idea instead." He gestures to the chair next to him. All the better to have the table cover her legs. Of course, that wasn't an admission of anything, no matter what Everyone said.

**Anger**

"Wha-…You're…" Sherlock fumbles as Watson looks up at him. She's sitting on the staircase closing the buckle on some 5 inch maroon heels. The type that force her chest out, her round backside to pop. She gives him one of her patented looks, this one between a smirk and tested patience as she stands up to face him.

His eyes do a once over, not much different than his usual evaluation. They float over her black dress, the silver clutch in her hand, the scarf she wraps around her bare shoulders. When they return to latch onto her gaze he is decidedly perturbed. "We have work to do." He tells her crossly. He doesn't really think she deserves such a tone, but he finds himself extremely irritable in the moment.

Watson's smirk gives way to a sigh and she shakes her head gently. "We don't have anything urgent and I need a night off. A night _not_ working. I know you don't get that, but that's what I need." She emphasizes with forced tolerance.

"You're going on a date." He lingers on the t sound, his tone full of judgment.

Watson's gaze flits away from him and returns with resolve. "If you must know, then yes. I haven't been on one in a while considering how much we're always _working_."

Sherlock frowns and gives a curt nod. "Yes, I've seen it in your gait."

For just a second Watson's eyebrow flickers in annoyance. Then the mask of serenity falls back into place. "I suppose I should get that taken care of then. Hm?" She gives him a small smile laced with triumph.

Sherlock just scowls in return. There's a sudden burning in his chest and he thinks he might erupt. "There are more efficient methods, Watson." He nearly scolds. "Methods that don't require you to break away and waste time on romantic nonsense." As he talks the burning sensation grows, the flames licking the lining of his stomach, tickling the back of his throat.

She merely rolls her eyes and slips past him to the door.

"You should take the work seriously, Watson!" He calls after her, his back turned away from the door as it slams shut behind her, no other response given to his criticism. He stands in the foyer, his fists clenching as he just his jaw out in frustration. He knows she's right, there's no reason for her to be working, no reason for him to be so hard on her. And yet he has not in recent memory felt so unhinged.

Adding the frustration of his livid feelings to the absence of Watson, Sherlock makes for his dummy, intent on a bit of singlestick.

**Bargaining**

_I think she's the person you love most in the world_

Damn him for being right. Damn him for knowing her, for dragging her into this, for existing.

But that pitiful excuse for a brother is not his concern right now. All he can think of is Watson, what he must do to get her back, what havoc he will wreak to know that she is safe, in the brownstone, where she belongs.

He doesn't care about the consequences, the morality, all the insignificant reasons to not do what comes next. He has the tools, he has the knowledge, perhaps most frightening is the absolute void of hesitation. When he gets Yoder into the chair, there will be no stopping him.

She wouldn't like it. He knows that. But he can't care. All that matters is her.

_I'll do whatever I need to, just please. Please. Please bring her home. Please. _

The word repeats in his mind, over and over. It blots out the questions of right or wrong. It stops all the thoughts that she wouldn't want this, that if she were here she would stop him.

But that's just it. She's not here. She can't stop him. So he must. MUST. _Must. _

He told her he would never allow her to come to harm. How could he be so foolish? How could he promise her such? He wants to go back to that moment and tell her the truth. That he was imprudent, that she must save herself from him.

_Just let her come back. If she comes back, that's all that matters. I can be anyone, do anything for her, if she only comes back. I will let her leave, just…_

He's already become a better man. She knows that, doesn't she? He can do more, he can be better. She just needs to come home, be safe once again.

Sherlock stares down at the shiny metal tools covering his work surface. He tightens his fist, squeezes his eyes shut.

_Please_

**Depression**

He's done it. He's done every wrong thing imaginable and that's why he's here, alone again. It's his own fault. He had arrogantly thought he didn't need her, that he didn't need anyone. At one time it was true. He was happier by himself, satisfied in the knowledge that others were beneath him. Of course, he understood where that had gotten him. How wrong he was.

So why did he think he should push her away? Why did he think her decision to move out meant that he might as well move across the ocean? And why did he drive away the one person who had accepted him since? He beats his fist against his thigh as a tear slides down his cheek.

It was ridiculous, to be sitting here alone, weeping over the things he had done. He was never so sentimental, never so foolish. This was the proverbial spilt milk.

But now it feels so hopeless. And he can't help but think that all reason to hold onto his sobriety has been lost. He can picture the small packet of white powder, the smiley face stamped on its shiny surface. He thinks it's time to accept who he is. To accept that he has destroyed everything good in his life and drown in the comfort the escape could provide.

**Acceptance**

"I love you Watson." Sherlock whispers. Dawn is barely breaking and tendrils of light are filtering into her bedroom. The sun signals a new beginning to him. A new point in time that he should mark and remember. The day he finally understands.

It had been a hard journey to this point. And he can't pinpoint the exact moment when he allowed himself to concede to this notion. It was different than with Irene and he understands just why. Because the way Watson is with him is genuine. There isn't a mystery to it, there isn't this feeling that it could be yanked away. Like she may turn on him.

He takes notice of the freckles across her cheek, the sweep of her eyelashes against them. He thinks she is as constant as those freckles and it's comforting.

He can see their future together; late nights hunched over case files, days picking through crime scenes, her steadying presence through any crisis. He hums softly to himself, closes his eyes and revels in the moment.

Peace was not something he had ever pretended to know until now. And he knows he has her to thank for that. That first day he laid eyes on her, that rubbish about 'love at first sight', how ironic. Because now he understands that it was pretty damn close. Now he knows, he loved her long before he realized it, long before he could grasp the incredible change she had brought into his life.

He sees now, no matter what the future brings to them, the changes they will each experience, he can count on her. And he can be forever grateful that she walked through his door. Funny how he had believed he would only have to suffer through six weeks with his sober companion, and now he's been blessed with a lifetime partner.

Sherlock opens his eyes as they fall again on Watson, still fast asleep. He smiles to himself, notices how late it is becoming and slides out of the chair he sits on. He takes a deep breath as his gaze returns to her. To him it is impossible she will ever return his feelings, but that does not concern him. What he feels for her is enough, what she gives him without expectation he will never take for granted.

No, she will never know how he really feels. And despite the pinch in his heart that thought causes, he feels lighter than he ever has before. Sherlock pushes the longing away and decides breakfast is in order – a nice wake up call for his dear Watson.

He shuffles out of the room as Watson sleeps on, unaware.


End file.
